


Spectrum

by Poppelganger



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Reader-Insert, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 06:58:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4170354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poppelganger/pseuds/Poppelganger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reader insert one-shots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seijuurou Akashi: The Emperor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You were there the day Seijuurou Akashi broke. You tried to pick up the pieces, but only cut up your hands."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to keep one foot in fanfiction while I work on my other projects, so I thought some cute reader inserts would be fun. They're all probably going to be disgustingly fluffy, except for Akashi's, I just couldn't make it happen.  
> I am not consistent with vowel length in names, sorryyyyyyyy.

You figured it would be over after high school.

Going all the way to Kyoto hadn’t been your plan initially but things just worked out that way.  Rakuzan had a reputation for its graduates to make their way to top-ranking Universities, so your parents were more than willing to accommodate you when they found out you’d passed the high school entrance exam.  It had been a coincidence, really, that you would be going far enough away that you wouldn’t be able to see him anymore, and it had been pure luck that you’d never had the chance to tell him where you were going for high school.

Too good to be true, of course.

On your first day at your new school, you discover that Seijuro Akashi is in your homeroom.  You sit a few rows over and a few sets behind him, and your eyes are drawn instantly to his red hair.  As though sensing you nearby, he turns to meet your gaze, and you inhale sharply at the coldness you find there.

It’s the same boy, the same one who broke into a million little pieces in Teiko’s gymnasium during basketball practice.  You were there when it happened; you tried to pick up the pieces, day after day you tried to piece him back together, but you just cut up your hands on the sharpness of what was left behind.

You spend morning introductions riddled with anxiety, dreading for your turn to come because you know he’s going to turn and look at you, and you don’t know what his eyes will look like, whose eyes they’ll be. 

His, or the Emperor’s.

When the student sitting in front of you finishes introducing themselves and sits back down, you reluctantly push back your chair and stand, keeping your eyes straight ahead on the blackboard at the front of the room.  Your voice is shaking as you tell the class your name and hobbies, and you bow meekly when you finish, hurriedly taking your seat again.  Reluctantly, you glance at Seijuro out of the corner of your eye and flinch when you find him staring intensely, gaze hard and cold.

It’s Seijuro, you remind yourself, you know it’s Seijuro.  You know that, but it’s hard to accept sometimes.

At the end of the day, you pack your bag as quickly as you can, intending to make a run for it before he can stop you, but a hand slams on your desk and you look up at Seijuro leaning over you, one eye glinting.  “It’s been a while,” he says, quiet enough that none of your classmates notice anything’s amiss, “Walk home with me.”

It isn’t a request.  As always, this side of Seijuro speaks only in absolutes.  There’s no need for you to give a meek nod in response, but you do, and it brings a smile to his lips that churns your stomach with its wrongness.

There’s still so much pain beneath it, even after all this time, and it hurts your heart to look at it.

*

It’s a coping mechanism.

You remind yourself of that as you walk beside him and it’s the Emperor’s eyes that look at you.  That’s what you started calling him back then—the Emperor—because even though this is the same Seijuro from your childhood, even though it’s Seijuro who loved basketball with his whole heart, even though he’s the same Seijuro you fell in love with, it feels strange to call him by that name.

The Emperor did not appear suddenly or without warning; it was a seed planted within Seijuro long ago, nurtured by the way his father pushed him.  You remember how lost he looked when he confided in you that he worried his father would force him to quit the team.  You remember how he became increasingly agitated during games, how the very sport that brought light to his eyes began to take it away as the pressure to win became too much to bear.

You remember when Seijuro broke.  You were waiting for him after practice, checking your phone for the time as you stood beside the school gate.  You couldn’t tell from afar, so when you first glimpsed him coming outside, you smiled and waved, and only when he was close enough that you could see his eyes did your smile fall.  It was his eyes that told you as they burned into yours, all of Seijuro’s passion frozen over into something cold and merciless.

“Akashi?” You’d said uneasily, waiting for his gaze to soften and for his smile to appear.  Seijuro always dreaded going home at the end of the day, so you walked with him and distracted him with idle conversation so he could relax just a little longer.  You’d never seen such a frightening expression on his face, and you actually took a step back.

“It’s me,” he said, voice soft as always but off somehow, lower and containing an edge you hadn’t heard before.  “What’s wrong?  You look upset.”

“It’s just…”  You didn’t mean to, but you took another step back from him.  “Did something happen today?  You seem….”  Your back hit one of the trees in the schoolyard, and Seijuro quickly made his way to you, trapping you between his chest and the tree.

“Nothing happened,” he said hollowly, “Nothing at all.”

You didn’t know what had happened.  You couldn’t have known.

“Well?  Aren’t you going to walk with me?”  His voice didn’t change, but you heard something different again, something about the words that made you feel uncomfortable.

“You don’t seem well, Akashi,” you said timidly, “Maybe just for today we should—!”

One hand slammed into the bark over your head and Seijuro took up your entire field of vision, eyes narrowed, the left one glinting in the sunset, almost gold.  “Are you disobeying me?” he asked quietly, and you will never forget his face when he said those words, the disbelief and barely-controlled rage on his face.

It was your first warning, but you had a feeling that you wouldn’t be getting another.

“No,” you said, trembling, “I-I’ll walk with you.”

Seijuro smiled at you finally, and it was all wrong.

He took your hand in his and you whimpered.

*

Your parents are silent and expectant when you sit down for dinner, waiting for you to tell them how your first day went.  They don’t know about what happened to Seijuro in those days; you don’t know how you’d explain it, or if they’d even believe you.  As far as they know, you and your childhood friend had drifted apart due to a difference in interests. 

They thought _basketball_ is what separated you, which shows you just how poorly they know Seijuro.  You know how hard he worked to balance his life so it could fit with his father’s expectations. 

You tell them it went well and excuse yourself as soon as you finish your food with the excuse that you’re tired, going straight for your room.  Stacked high in a bookshelf against the wall is a collection of psychology books you’ve been collecting since junior high, and you slide one out to read, just to remind yourself.

*

In the weeks that followed the birth of the Emperor, you struggled to cope with Seijuro’s erratic behavior.  When he was the Emperor, he was unreasonable, and every word that disagreed with his ideas fell on deaf ears.  You knew he believed that he was right, and that only he was right, and this unshakable belief seeped onto the court where his team’s admiration of him turned to fear.

And sometimes, when you walked apprehensively at his side back home, Seijuro would surface, and he would look so sad and lost for just a moment before he covered it up with confidence again.

You began hoarding books from the school library trying to do research, and when you ran out, you went to a store in town, spending your allowance on new medical texts.  Everywhere you looked, you found the same words thrown around with different definitions, a frightening and mysterious multitude of answers that all wore the same name.

_Split personality._

You did your best, tried to sift through all of the medical jargon for something that you could understand, because you desperately wanted an explanation for how he was acting.  You wanted an identifiable problem to blame so you could fix it. 

You wanted Seijuro back.

But the more you read, the more you believed that Seijuro had never gone anywhere, and that the Emperor was not a separate entity at all but a way for him to vent his frustration and protect himself.  The Emperor could be detached and cruel in ways that Seijuro never could have been, and as you began to understand the purpose of his existence, you began to hope that someday Seijuro wouldn’t need him anymore and everything would go back to the way it was.  You tried to ignore the coldness in his eyes and the way he commanded you and everyone around him.  You tried to ignore the sudden angry outbursts when his anger spilled over and burned anyone standing too close.  You tried to stay by his side in case he needed you, for weeks, and then for months. 

By the end of your final year in junior high, your hope had waned and you feared that the Emperor had become his permanent crutch, and that the gentle boy who’d once shyly held your hand when you offered it would not be coming back, and though you felt guilt, you began to withdraw from Seijuro as hopelessness settled in.

You couldn’t do it anymore.  You couldn’t handle the fear of misstepping around him every waking moment, and you couldn’t handle the brief moments of optimism whenever Seijuro’s eyes would soften, only to realize your foolishness when he spoke and nothing warm or kind was in those words. 

The Emperor tracks you down every day as soon as class is over, possessive of your time and attention like a jealous child.  You have yet to say no to him; you’ve heard rumors about an upperclassman who left for the day with his hand slashed up with a box cutter for talking back.  You don’t know if they’re true.

You don’t want to find out.

*

You have lunch with the Emperor most days. 

You always know when he’s coming by the way your friends tense up and avert their eyes, and a moment later he’s looming over your chair from behind, telling you—not asking, never asking—that you’ll be joining him, and you look at your friends apologetically before you move to his desk.  He doesn’t talk much; you think this is a bit like walking him home, that your presence is calming, and you wonder if Seijuro had wanted to do this before but never quite worked up the courage to ask.

“Do you dislike me now?” he asks suddenly.  His face is the same unreadable mask as always, but there’s a hint of nervousness in his voice, so slight that you would have missed it if you weren’t always listening for Seijuro in the Emperor’s words.  “You always look upset when we’re together, like you’d rather be doing anything else.”

“No,” you say quickly, “Akashi, I really like spending time with you.”  It’s an honest answer, despite the anxiety seeping into your voice.

“Really?” he asks, “I’m glad to hear that.  I wasn’t so sure before.  You never even told me where you were going for high school.  If we didn’t both end up here, it might have been hard to find track of you.”  His gaze shifts a bit, and he’s no longer looking at you directly.  “I would have found you, though,” he says quietly, “Somehow, I would have.”

The Emperor’s attention returns to your face, and you inhale sharply at the look in his eyes.  Something’s changed.  “I like you,” he says with a bluntness the Seijuro you remember from childhood always lacked.  The sudden confession throws you off completely and you stare at him wide-eyed and speechless.  “I like you,” he says again, smiling that dangerous, sharp smile, “And I know you like me.”

The Emperor is right, like always.  Your face flushes and you look away, but a hand reaches under your chin and forces you to meet his eyes.  “Go out with me,” he says.

A year ago, before the Emperor, you had dreamed of something like this.  But in your dreams, Seijuro was gentle and warm, smiling at his feet as he told you how he felt and asked if you would be his girlfriend. 

It’s still Seijuro, you remind yourself once again, trying to read into his smile for something softer.  “Okay,” you tell him, because you really would love to.  It’s still Seijuro.

Maybe you can convince yourself of it over time.

*

The Emperor refers to everyone by the first name.  He feels no need to show respect when it is others who should respect him.

That’s the easiest way to tell, but it doesn’t always help.

Sometimes, you’ll be on your back on Seijuro’s bed while his father is away on business, and as he trails kisses up your bare stomach, and in times like this, neither of you would use last names anyway.  You rely on the sound of his voice and the words he says, a tender, “You’re beautiful,” sticking out in the silence.  It’s a rare moment, the boy you remember from before trying to speak through the vicious ruler he’s become, and you savor it as long as it lasts.  He speaks with an affection that the Emperor lacks. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into your skin, burying his face in your neck, “I’m so sorry.  Please forgive me.”

You don’t know what he’s apologizing for, but you wrap your arms around him and tell him it’s going to be okay, that you’ll stay by his side and love him for who he is whether he wins or loses.  It’s the wrong thing to say; Seijuro pulls away to look at you, eyes sending a shiver down your spine.  “I won’t lose,” the Emperor says, one hand daringly shooting down the front of your skirt and cupping your womanhood through your underwear, “I won’t ever lose.”  You gasp and cling to his shoulders when one finger pushes past the fabric and strokes your clit, teasing and prodding and rubbing, and all you can do is pant and whimper in his ear.

“S-Seijuro,” you whimper, trying to call him back.

“I’m right here,” the Emperor says, kissing your temple, “I’m right here.”

Seijuro would never touch you so boldly, not without some nervous kisses and soft, awkward laughter as you tangle yourselves together.  The Emperor is confident, sure of his skills and of your submission.  You’re overwhelmed.  It’s still Seijuro, you chant the mantra in your head, it’s still Seijuro.

“I love you,” you cry as he begins thrusting his finger inside of you, “I love you, Seijuro.”

“You’re so wet,” he breathes.

_“I love you, too,” Seijuro would say here, embarrassed but eager to continue._

“Seijuro, please,” you beg him as he finally begins to undress, “Please, I need you.”

“You’re mine,” the Emperor growls, littering your neck with possessive bites, marking his territory, “All mine.”

_“Just a minute,” Seijuro would say, face lightly flushed as he helped position you so you’d both be comfortable, “I got you.”_

You come three times before the Emperor is satisfied, and find yourself tucked into his chest, his chin resting on your head.  You don’t know what to do.  You don’t know if there’s anything you _can_ do. 

“Love you,” someone mutters.  It could be either of them.  You can’t be sure; his eyes are closed and he’s holding you tightly but gently.  You suppose it doesn’t matter.

“I love you, too,” you say, speaking to both of them, all of him, because it really is just one person, just your Seijuro, and you have always accepted him no matter what.

*

Seijuro watches over his teammates practicing with appraising eyes, and there’s almost the slightest hint of a smile on his face, but it’s gone so quickly you wonder if you imagined it.  You wait for him by the door of the gym, face reddening in embarrassment when his teammates notice and call out to you.  You’ve become a regular fixture to practice and games, and while you’ve only spoken to them a handful of times, you know by the knowing smiles they give when you leave for the day with their captain that they trust you with him.

The one with black hair almost to his shoulders, Mibuchi, stops in the hall next to you as he’s leaving.  “Thank you for taking care of him for us,” he says gently, “But don’t forget to take care of yourself, too.”

“I’m doing my best,” you say, eyes never leaving Seijuro as he bends to pick up his water bottle.  “You know,” you tell him, “Akashi wasn’t always like this.”

“That’s almost hard to believe.”  He follows your gaze.  “Do you miss the way he used to be?”

“Yes,” you admit, “But he’s…he’s still the same person.  My feelings haven’t changed.”

Mibuchi looks thoughtful for a moment and opens his mouth to say something, but changes his mind when Seijuro approaches.  He dismisses Mibuchi with a nod of his head, and the upperclassman gives a slight wave as he leaves.

“Let’s go,” he says without looking at you, but when he takes your hand, there’s a certain warmth there that you hadn’t noticed before.  He holds on tightly, almost anxiously, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.  There’s an unease beneath his confidence.

It’s still Seijuro, after all.

“I love you,” you tell him, “I love you, no matter what.”

Seijuro freezes midstride, looking back at you over his shoulder.  The frigidity in his eyes melts for a moment, softening into gratitude and reciprocated feelings.  His grip on your hand loosens and he laces your fingers together.

“I love you, too,” he says. 

_“Thank you,” Seijuro is saying._

It isn’t your job to “fix” Seijuro, if such a thing is even possible.  But what you can do is stay by his side and assure him that he can show his vulnerable, gentle self to you, just like he used to.


	2. Atsushi Murasakibara: Ulterior Motives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After months of harboring a crush on Atsushi, you manage to completely botch your confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I crammed most every cliche I could possibly think of into a single one shot, hahaha.

“If you don’t go down there, I will throw these on the court at halftime and embarrass both of us,” your friend Sayuri promises, holding the little plastic bag of candies with a ribbon tied around the top hostage above her head.  Sayuri is petite at 155 centimeters tall, but you’re even shorter, so it’s easy for her to keep them just out of your reach.  You don’t doubt that she’ll actually do it, so you beg her to give it back and promise you’ll go as soon as the coach looks free.  

The Yousen basketball team has a practice game today, and you’re among a handful of other students who have turned out to watch.  Many of your peers are here to watch Tatsuya Himuro, who supposedly gets more love letters than the rest of the team combined, but you’re not here for him.  Sayuri could really care less about basketball, but she’s a good friend, and you’re hopelessly timid, so she’s made it her mission to help you out.

“Why a basketball player, though?” she teases as she hands the bag back to you, “I mean, I don’t think I know anybody at this school shorter than you.  These guys are so tall they probably wouldn’t notice if they stepped on you.”  You frown at her and she shrugs, turning her attention to the court.  “Oh, now’s your chance!” she says eagerly, pointing at Coach Araki who has the team gathered on the bench.  “She’s almost done, they’ll go practice shooting for a while after this.  Just run down and hand it to her.”

“Wh-what do I say?” you stammer as Sayuri pushes through the crowd with an iron grip on your forearm.

“Tell her you’re a huge fan and that they’re for the freakishly tall player.”  She pauses.  “Well, hold on, they’re all freakishly tall.  Make sure to specify.”

“Are you sure this is okay?”

“All the girls do this,” she insists, “I mean, yeah, you can leave it in their locker, but giving it to the coach is a better way to guarantee he pays attention to it, since you went to the trouble.” 

The easiest way, of course, would be to just give it to him directly, but Sayuri understands that your shyness means such a straightforward solution is out of the question.

You reach the sideline just as the team runs out onto the court, and Sayuri cups her hands around her mouth and calls, “Coach Araki!”  You’re mortified, but it’s too late to go anywhere; the stern-faced woman is already headed your way.  Sayuri pushes you stumbling forward, making it clear that she doesn’t intend to fight this battle for you, and you feel heat rise to your face, eyes on your feet as you hold the bag of candies forward in your trembling hands.

“I’mabigfanandthisisforMurasakibara,” you mumble hurriedly. 

“I’ll make sure he gets it,” she says with a nod, taking it from you, and leaves.

Sayuri tries very hard not to laugh at you, covering her mouth with one hand until her shoulders stop convulsing, and then drapes an arm over your shoulder and leads you back to the crowd where you squeeze back to the front.  “See, that wasn’t so bad, right?” she asks, “I don’t think she could really understand anything you said but his name, but I think the point got across.  Look, you beat the rush, too.”  You glance at the steadily growing cluster of your classmates who are lining up where you just stood with letters and gifts clutched in their hands, Tatsuya’s name written in cutesy hiragana on each. 

“Thank you,” you tell her, eyes straying to the court where Atsushi’s lanky build is taking up most of the airspace in front of the basket. 

“No problem,” she says, following your gaze, “But did it have to be that one?  Why couldn’t you like Himuro?  At least he’s cute.”

You frown.

“What?  I mean, they’re both tall, but he’s like, normal-tall.”

Your face flushes in embarrassment.  “I just…like Murasakibara better.”

“Hey, whatever.  It’s your life.”  She taps her chin thoughtfully, watching as he intercepts the ball and zooms across the court.  “For real, though, how would that even work?  He’d probably have to lift you to kiss him.  Or maybe he could go down to his knees.  You two would probably look more like an older brother and kid sister than a couple.”

“Sayuri!”

She shrugs.  “I’m just stating the obvious.”

You ignore her and focus on the court.  Who cares if Atsushi is really, _really_ tall, and you’re really short?  It’s not a big deal, and it’s not really a problem. 

At least, you hope not.

You wonder if he likes tall girls.  You inwardly begin to panic.

“Whoa, hey,” Sayuri says, snapping her fingers in front of your face, “Back to planet earth.  What’s with you?”

“Do you think he likes taller girls?”

Sayuri stares at you.  “I hope for his sake he doesn’t, because I doubt he’ll find another human taller than him.”

“I’m serious!”

“So am I.”

You try to forget about your anxiety for the time being.  For all you know, he won’t even be interested in you.  You don’t know if he gets approached very often, but you doubt he’ll pursue you.  Like Sayuri said, you’re small, especially compared to him.  At least with other girls, he can actually see them without having to look down at the floor.  You anxiously turn over the paper card in your hands with your name written on it, wondering if he’ll even notice….

You pause.

You look down at the pile of gifts and letters sitting by the bench dutifully collected by Coach Araki, and then down at the card.

With your name.

So he’d know who it was from.

“Sayuri,” you whine.

“What?” she sighs, glancing at you.

“I’m an idiot.”

“It’s okay.”

“Y-you’re not supposed to agree with me!”

“Shh, it’s okay.”

You’re not sure you’ll ever be able to work up the courage like you did today, but at least there’ll be other games.  Maybe next time.

“How about Fukui?” she asks, “He’s the shortest one on the team.  Oh, but he’s a senior, so I guess he’s leaving after this year.”

You sigh.

*

Unbeknownst to you, at the end of the game, Atsushi Murasakibara took one of the candies from your bag, popped it into his mouth, and paused.  “Hey, Coach,” he drawled, “These are really good.  Who left them?”

The woman shrugged.  “Most girls leave name cards.  Isn’t there one there?”

“Did you get something from a girl?” Tatsuya asked with a knowing smile. 

“Guess so.”  He ate another, chewing thoughtfully.  “What’ll I do when they’re all gone, though?  I don’t know who to ask for more.”  He lifted the bag and examined the print on the side.  “Hey, you know English.  Can you read this?”

Tatsuya takes the bag from him and silently reads the letters.  “Uh, ‘Leh-Reeve?’  Or something.  I don’t think it’s English.” 

“Hm.”  Atsushi takes it back.  “Maybe that’s the store these came from.”

Tatsuya laughs.  “Hey, aren’t you interested in finding out who gave it to you?”

He doesn’t get an answer and sighs; of course he isn’t.  Atsushi has seldom shown interest in other human beings.

“Maybe,” Atsushi says, “She’ll be there, too.  She probably knows about lots of other good snacks, too, right?”

Tatsuya smiles.  It’s a start.  “Yeah.”

 *

“Well,” Sayuri says, pulling up a chair to sit with you during lunch, “It’s been a week, and he didn’t even have the decency to turn you down.  I think you should really go for Fukui next time.  I don’t think he ever gets gifts.  He’s probably desperate.”

You sink further back into your own chair.  “He just didn’t know how to find me,” you mumble.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” you sigh, “I forgot to leave my name.”

She pauses.  “Now hold on,” she says, leaning across your desk with her eyes narrowed, “You’re telling me I stayed late after class when I could’ve been home watching my TV drama—”

“Sayuri….”

“—And I went to the trouble of going to that stupid practice game so you would finally give a present to that skyscraper kid—”

“Sayuri, I know, I messed up!”

“—And you’re telling me that you _forgot to leave your name so he could figure out who gave it to him?”_

You take a deep breath and bury your face in your hands.

Sayuri rests her hands on your shoulders.  “Look,” she says tiredly, “It’s fine.  We’ll just do it again sometime.”

“I don’t want to do it again,” you mumble.

Her grip tightens.  “I missed the season finale for you, don’t let it be in vain.”

“Okay, okay!” you say quickly.

*

At the end of the day, you and Sayuri head to the lockers and she asks you when you’re free next, and which one of those days corresponds with another game for Yousen’s basketball team.  You’ve just gotten all packed up and ready to go when you notice a commotion in the next row and poke your head around to find a crowd of girls gathered around Tatsuya Himuro, who pokes out in the middle looking perfectly at ease despite the swarm.

“That man has the patience of a god,” Sayuri mutters, but then she smacks you on the arm to get your attention, pointing at him.  “Do you see what he’s holding?” she hisses.

Your eyes widen at the sight of the empty plastic bag that used to hold the candies you brought to the game.

“I was just wondering,” he says, “If anyone’s ever heard of this place?”

“Why?  Do you go there often?” one of the girls asks eagerly.

He laughs.  “Well, no, I actually hadn’t heard of it myself until recently.”

Sayuri looks at you and you look at her, and you’re shaking your head wildly but she already has one hand around your wrist and she’s dragging you further into the storm.  “She knows!” she exclaims, waving one arm so Tatsuya can’t miss her, “My friend knows!  She works there!”

Tatsuya glances at you, as does the entire crowd, though with much less curiosity and more homicidal rage, and you feel yourself blushing, embarrassed at the attention.  “Great,” he says, smiling, “I have a friend who’s really interested in going there.  What’s your name?”

You freak out a little bit and find yourself mumbling again.  Sayuri comes to your rescue, introducing you in your place and even gives him directions to the shop, and Tatsuya nods appreciatively.

“Thanks,” he says, “I’ll be sure to let him know,” and you scurry off the moment you’re dismissed.

Sayuri can hardly contain her excitement, laughing wildly the moment you’re out the front doors.  “I can’t believe it!  He’s been using Himuro to figure out where the candy came from!  I guess that’d be a pretty fast method.” 

“Are you sure?” you ask nervously, “I mean, he didn’t actually _say_ Murasakibara’s name or anything.”

She shakes her head.  “Who else would it be?  Now, come on, you need to go home in case he comes by tonight.  And wear something cute!”

“Sayuri!”

*

Le Rêve was your mother’s dream, a cute, little pastry shop run by close friends and family with a friendly atmosphere and shelves full of homemade cakes and candies.  Your father, aunts and uncles have all embraced the shop, and several of your cousins are regular employees.  You like the feeling of the store, too, of course, and you love going to help out in the afternoons after school, but your apron is really just for show compared to the others, because you’re completely useless when it comes to baking.

It’s not that you can’t cook at all—you make your own boxed lunches every morning—but non-Japanese foods have always just been beyond your ability.  Your mother has assured you that if there ever comes a time when she wants to start stocking fish-shaped pastries filled red bean paste or mochi, you will have your time to shine.  But that time hasn’t come yet, because foreign foods are all the rage right now, and there’s been no need to compete with such a saturated market when there are traditional food stands all the way down the block.  Your family’s bakery is where people come to have a taste of something different.

The candies you brought for Atsushi?  Your cousin Reika made them.  You tried making a batch and the oven had to be cleaned in a hurry because of all burnt, sludgy substance in the bottom. 

Tying the apron around your waist with your name embroidered in curly hiragana at the top, you take over the register for Reika.  “You look kind of stressed,” she says, “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I just….”  You tell her about running into Tatsuya earlier, and how Atsushi will inevitably find out where the shop is.

A smile spreads across her face, growing with each word.  “That’s wonderful,” she says, “Aren’t you glad?”

“I dunno,” you say, “I am, I think, but I’m also nervous.  We’ve never actually talked before.  I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, firstly, welcome him to the store and ask if you can help him find anything,” Reika says with a chuckle, “Since you are on the clock, after all.”

You blush.  “Right.”

The bells above the door jingle, and you glance over, your heart leaping into your throat when you see Atsushi Murasakibara, bending a bit to fit through the doorway, Tatsuya right behind him.  You look back at Reika for advice, but she’s already at the kitchen, giving you a “thumbs up” and disappearing around the corner.  You swallow nervously, trying to get the word, “Welcome!” to come out, but all you do is squeak, and he doesn’t hear it. 

“Oh, these look really good,” Tatsuya says, picking up a bag of yogurt-covered pretzels from the shelf closest to him.  Atsushi is distracted, crouching in front of the glass case attached to the outside of the counter you’re standing behind.  You watch as he carefully examines the pastries, looking at them with much more focus and determination than most people would.  He stands to his full height a moment later and glances at the wall behind you. 

“Is anyone here?” he asks.

You squeak again.  He doesn’t hear it.  Nervously, you raise one, trembling hand, mumbling, “C-c-can I help you f-find anything?”

His eyes follow the tip of your fingers down your arm to your face and he looks surprised.  “Didn’t see you there,” he says.

You stare up at him, knowing Sayuri was right. 

Tatsuya sidles up next to him a moment later with the bag of pretzels, setting them on the counter to pay.  “Oh, hey,” he says, noticing you, “You’re the girl from before.”

You wish you could just kind of sink into the floor or turn invisible or something.  You’d probably only have to crouch and they’d lose sight of you behind the counter.  “From before?” Atsushi asks.

“Yeah, I was trying to find someone who knew where that bag was from.”

Atsuhi’s eyes meet yours and you can see the gears turning in his head.  The blush spreads to the tips of your ears.  “So it was you,” he drawls, “Right?  Who gave me that bag of sweets before?”

All you have to do is say yes.  That’s all.  Just open your mouth, inhale, move your tongue into the appropriate shape to form the word, and speak.  That’s all you have to do.

Instead, you just kind of stare up at him with huge eyes, lower lip trembling.  Atsushi keeps staring, waiting for an answer, and you realize he’s not going to give up until you answer, so you manage to mutter a barely audible, “yes.”

“What was it that you gave me?” he asks.

You blink in surprise, having expected something more like, “Sorry, but you’re not my type,” and hurriedly come out from behind the counter, scurrying over to the stand of assorted candy bags in the corner.  You pick up another bag and dive back behind the counter, stretching up onto your tiptoes and holding it over your head so he can see it. 

“T-this one,” you stammer.

He takes it wordlessly, inspects the bag to be sure, and nods.  He leaves the counter momentarily, and Tatsuya smiles reassuringly at you, managing only to make you more nervous, as Atsushi returns with his arms full, and your eyes widen as you glance back at the stand to find the top shelves completely empty.  “I’ll take all of these,” he says.

You weren’t sure what to say before when you thought he would come in and gently turn you down, and you weren’t sure what you’d say if he, for some bizarre reasons, decided he liked you.  So now that he’s not saying either of those things, you _really_ don’t know what to say.  “Oh,” you say finally, “Okay,” and ring him up. 

Atsushi waits around after you hand him three bags worth of candy for Tatsuya to pay for his pretzels.  As you hand him his change, you feel a surge of bravery.  “U-um,” you say, succeeding in getting Atsushi to look at you, “When, um, when you run out.  Y-you can come back here!  We’ll have more.  Um.  So….”  And it’s gone.  You look down at the counter, so embarrassed you feel tears stinging the corners of your eyes.  “S-so….”

A large hand comes to rest on your head, ruffling your hair.  You glance up timidly, finding Atsushi leaning over the counter, patting your head.  “You’re really small,” he says, “And you’re really quiet.  Kind of reminds me of a cat.”  He looks down at you with a somewhat serious expression.  “So I’ll call you Konekochin.”

You look to Tatsuya, hoping he can explain to you what just happened.  He just smiles.

“I’ll come back,” Atsushi says, stepping back from the counter, “But before that, can you bring me something different to try at the next game?”

Your eyes widen.  Did he just ask you to come to a game?  It’s to bring him more sweets, of course, but still, this is a big moment for you.  “W-what do you want to try?” you ask.

He shrugs.  “I’ll take whatever you bring.  You have good taste, Konekochin.”

“O-okay!  I’ll bring something really good!” you promise.  Atsushi is and Tatsuya are out the door not long after that, and it occurs to you as the bells above it jingle that Atsushi didn’t really understand what you were trying to say when you gave him the candies in the first place.

But that’s okay, because that means the door is still open. 


	3. Shogo Haizaki: Fight Me in Real Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Shogo have a history together.

Once upon a time, in the concrete kingdom of Tokyo, there was an angry princess who ruled the streets with a lead pipe and her fist, her mouth covered with a surgical mask, her school uniform skirt altered to brush inches off the ground, her swagger bringing nervous whispers of “ _sukeban_ ,” as she passed.  She stole from department stores, spray-painted the town, and picked a fight with anyone who so much as looked at her wrong.  And for a long while, it wasn’t uncommon to see her staring down one of Teikou Junior High’s basketball players, the bleach-haired brawler Shougo Haizaki, who would sooner raise hell than actually go to practice.

You are not that girl anymore, but those days aren’t very far behind you yet.  Shougo is still fresh in your mind, his sneer with one eyebrow raised, uniform purposefully left sloppy as he stood across from you with his hands in his pockets.  He used to hold the streets before you came out from left field and stole his territory.  You met on a near daily basis, crossing paths on your way home from school and antagonizing each other as much as possible.  The girls who followed you—similarly lost in life and angry at everything—always backed off when Shougo came into view, because the last thing you wanted was him to bitch about an unfair fight.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he’d say, “I might think you’re looking for a fight.”

Stupid statement; you were always looking for a fight.

“Fuck off, Haizaki,” you’d shoot back, middle finger raised, “You’re just bitter about losing last time.”

You didn’t trade blows every time you met, but tempers inevitably flared, and people knew better than to get between you.  Sometimes, if it was late enough in the day, nobody would even call the police, and you’d go at it until one of you couldn’t stand.  Shougo was faster but you were smarter; when things didn’t end in a draw, both of you panting, face-first on the pavement, still trying to climb to your feet, you tended to walk away, spitting at his bruised body as you went.

When people find out about your history, they always want to know why; why did you do that?  Why did you cause so much trouble?  It’s not an easy answer.  You think anger has something to do with it.  You’ve always been angry; at your parents and their mediocrity, at society and the way you’ve always been pushed to conform, at yourself for all sorts of reasons.  Things are different now, of course.  After junior high, your parents decided to pack up and move to give you a fresh start, and you’ve left all of that behind you.

“Hey,” a close friend and classmate named Yuki calls, waving a hand in front of your face, “Are you in there?”

You sigh and nod, returning your attention to the homework problem she’s having trouble with.  Yuki knows about you before high school and has taken it upon herself to keep you busy and on the straight and narrow, and you don’t mind, because it’s kind of cute, really.  Your anger is still there, simmering below the surface, but you handle it better now, vent it in other ways like going for runs and journaling, healthier things on Yuki’s suggestion. 

Your phone lets out a little chime to let you know you have a new message, and you flip it open, ignoring the frown on Yuki’s face.  “Hey, come on, help me with this,” she whines.

“Sorry,” you say, pocketing your phone hurriedly.

She raises a brow.  “That was fast.  Who was it?”

“Nobody.”

She stares at you, waiting for you cave.

“Do you want help or not?” you ask.

She nods but the skeptical look doesn’t leave her face for a while. 

Stored in the memory of your phone is a message from a number you deleted a while back, simply saying, _You owe me a rematch._

You delete it later without replying.

*

The last time you saw Shougo Haizai, he was glaring up at you from where he was sprawled on the concrete, the heel of your shoe pressed against his throat.

“You learn anything today, Haizaki?” you drawled, but your smirk fell when he continued to glare at you.  “Get that look off your face, you piece of shit,” you spat, and his hands flew to your ankle in a panic when you started to push down.  “You don’t rule these streets anymore; _I_ do.  So stop parading around like you own the damn place.  I don’t want to catch you giving my girls a hard time again, you understand?”

“Fuck off,” he spat, and you just laughed, releasing him and stepping back.

“You’re such a moron,” you said with a grin, “Fine.  You name a time and a place, Haizaki, and we’ll settle this.”  You turned your back on him, knowing he was too weak to follow.  When you think back on it, you’re pretty sure you were trying to flirt with him, because there weren’t many guys who didn’t flinch when you just looked at them.  Shougo was dumb enough to keep coming back for more.

“Just you wait,” he shouted at your back as you disappeared back onto the street, “Just you fucking wait, it’ll be you on the ground next time, you bitch!”

He gave you his time, and he gave you his place, and he waited.

But you never came.

*

Someone calls your name as you’re leaving for the day, a few steps out the school gate, and you turn to find a tall upperclassman with a plain, tired face approaching you.  Yuki looks concerned and stays by your side. 

“Can I help you?” you ask.

He looks around uneasily.  “You don’t happen to know a Shougo Haizaki, do you?”

“I know of one.  Why?”

“Could you please,” he takes a breath, looking uncomfortable as he tries to think of how to phrase his next words, “Text him back sometime?”

You stare back at him in disbelief.  “Are you serious?” you ask, “I’m not going to fight him, okay?  Are you one of his friends?  Tell him to grow up.”

“I don’t want you to fight him,” the upperclassman says, “Just text him back.  Maybe talk to him sometime.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s….”  He pauses.  “He’s obsessed with you.  I don’t know if he’ll ever move on if you don’t talk to him.”

You don’t see how talking to him would make a difference—Shougo was never the type to be moved by anything other than force—but the word ‘obsessed’ sticks out to you.  You think you were both a little obsessed with each other back in junior high.  “I’m not going to make any promises,” you say, but then continue, “How is he, by the way?  What’s he up to?”

“He’s on the basketball team here.”

“Of course he is.”  Your family moved you hours away from Tokyo to get away from your old life, but it had moved right along with you. 

“He talks about you a lot,” the upperclassman says.

“All of it bad, I’m sure.”

“Most of it.”  He hesitates.  “I had to ask around to make sure I had your name right.  I wasn’t sure you were the same person.”

You smile.  “I’m not.”

*

You’d gotten ahold of Shougo’s cell phone number in your last year of junior high when things were at their worst.  Your parents found themselves in a uniquely distressing position because of your intelligence; most families of delinquents forced their children to focus on their studies with the school closely monitoring their activities and grades, but your grades had never been a problem.  You were a furious intellectual who was bored in class, and for a time, the blame shifted to your instructors for failing to better engage you. 

When the police and school counselor got involved, your family became acutely aware of your constant fighting with Shougo Haizaki, and he and his family became unwilling participants in an attempted rehabilitation effort.  It was completely ineffective at first; sitting the two of you down in the same room to talk was about as constructive as putting two male betta fish in the same bowl. 

You found Shougo’s phone number on your father’s cell phone with the rest of his family’s numbers, and you texted him immediately, “ _Guess who, shithead?”_ , unleashing an entirely new realm of antagonism.  After that, the two of you texted frequently, as it gave you a platform to harass one another without being physically present.  After graduating from junior high, however, the texts became one-sided, with Shougo constantly attempting to provoke you, but you never took the bait.

Shougo didn’t make you mad anymore; if anything, he was kind of pitiful.

*

“This is a bad idea,” Yuki helpfully informs you the following day, “You’re not really going to do it, are you?  I mean, this is the same guy from junior high, isn’t it?”

“It’s a bad idea,” you agree, “But I’m gonna do it.  I thought he’d have moved on by now, but obviously, he hasn’t.”  You’d texted him that you’d meet him at a train stop downtown in an hour, and he’d been uncharacteristically silent after that.  “I think his friend’s onto something.  Maybe this’ll help.”

“I dunno,” Yuki says uneasily, “I mean, you changed, but you’re different.  You’re smarter than him, and you’ve got a lot more going for you.  He’s just some loser—!”

You don’t actually realize that you’ve slammed your hand on your desk until you notice Yuki has scooted her chair a few inches away from you and is staring wide-eyed.  “He’s not,” you say quietly, “He’s not just…some loser.  He’s just angry, that’s all.”

Yuki nods in agreement, eager to keep you calm.

People used to call you a loser, too, after all.  They said you were never going to amount to anything but a drug-seeking dropout.  It’s easy in hindsight to say that you changed because you were smart or just going through a rough time, but back then, nobody was saying that.

Shougo, you’re certain, is the same way.

*

Now that you think about it, you did run into Shougo one other time before moving away.  You were wearing the regular uniform then, dutifully carrying a school bag instead of a pipe, and you heard him coming a mile away because of how loud he was.

“Hey!  Let’s fight!” he’d shouted, but you kept on walking.  He put a hand on your shoulder and jerked you around.  “Don’t ignore me, you bitch!”

“Don’t touch me,” you’d shot back, slapping his hand away but doing little else.  “I mean it, Haizaki, if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll have my parents call your school.”

“You owe me a fight,” he demanded, “You stood me up, and you owe me.”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“You have to!” he yelled when you turned away from him, and you didn’t stop when you realized he wasn’t going to do anything, “Come back here!  We need to fight!”

His voice grew quieter the further you went, muffled by crowds and cars, but you think his voice became hoarse towards the end like he was about to cry, and he said something like, _Don’t leave me here._

*

Shougo Haizaki has changed little since those days.

His hair has been dyed dark again and he’s got it tied tight in cornrows and braids, but he’s got the same slouch, the same angry gleam in his eye, and the same bad attitude.  He’s idling outside the station you agreed to meet at, checking his phone every couple of seconds, and it’s hard for you to keep yourself from smiling.  He doesn’t even notice you approach; his eyes are scanning the crowd for someone else, someone angrier, someone dressed like a gang member. 

“Can I help you?” you ask him.

He glances up from his phone in annoyance, raising a brow.  “Mind your own fuckin’ business for starters,” he mutters.

“Are you waiting for somebody?”

He puts his hands in his pockets and cocks his head, leering at you in a way reminiscent to what you remember.  “You deaf?” he snaps, “I said it’s none of your goddamn business.”  Slowly, his eyes wander, and his scowl turns into a smirk.  “Unless you’re looking for a date.”

 _What a charmer,_ you think, inwardly rolling your eyes.  He’s staring you straight in the face and still doesn’t recognize you.  Then again, you’ve changed, too.  You wear glasses now, a good deterrent to getting into fights, and you tie your hair back.  You slip your own phone into your pocket and narrow your eyes at him.  “Are you blind?” you return the taunt, “You’re the one who made such a big damn deal about us meeting.”

He blinks, dumbfounded.  “Uh, no, pretty sure I don’t know you.”  He shrugs, sliding easily into a grin.  “’Course, I don’t mind getting to know you.”

“I don’t want to share the same air as you any long than I have to,” you say, putting a hand up when he tries coming closer.

“Then what’re you sticking around for?”

You cross your arms over your chest, spread your legs apart, and tilt your head, and you know from the way he does a double take that he’s starting to recognize you.  He starts at your legs, covered up by dark stockings, up to the hem of your skirt—normal length now—over your chest and up to your face, your narrow, glinting eyes, unmistakable even behind a pair of rectangular glasses.  “I told you,” you say, “You asked me to come, _Haizaki._ ”

He looks furious for half a second.  And then he laughs hysterically.  “What the fuck happened to you?”

“I grew up,” you say dryly, “You obviously didn’t.”

“Fuck that.”  He pops the joints in his knuckles, shakes them out, and takes out a fighting stance.  “Let’s finish it.”

“It’s already finished, Haizaki,” you say tiredly, “I don’t fight anymore.  If you know what’s good for you, then you won’t, either.”

His expression falls.  “What,” he swallows, “Is this some kind of fucking joke?”

You shake your head.  “You’re as bull-headed as ever,” you say, and turn to leave, “I knew this wasn’t worth it.  I’m going home.”

“Don’t you walk away from me!” he yells, apparently having no qualms about making a scene in public.  He’s staring at you in a regular uniform, no modifications, no custom embroidery, no sukeban emblems painted on the back, wearing glasses and looking down your nose at him. 

You, who doesn’t fight anymore.

“Don’t walk away,” he says again, weakly, and you actually stop at how desperate he sounds, glancing back over your shoulder and finding him looking away in embarrassment. 

You do owe him something, you think.

“Haizaki,” you say, and he startles to attention, “I’m not going to fight you.  But I won’t ignore you anymore, either.  You still have my number, right?  Call me when you decide you actually want to talk.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” he snaps.

You leave him standing there outside the station, eyes wide and confused, but no longer angry.

*

Your upperclassman, Hideki Ishida, approaches you days later.  “What’d you do to him?” he asks.

You don’t like his accusatory wording.  “I talked to him,” you say.

His frown deepens.  “He’s worse than he used to be.  He’s picking fights with his teammates now.”

“Look, I just did what you told me to,” you insist, and he nods.

“No, you’re right.  I’m sorry.  I guess I just thought….”  He shakes his head.  “Sorry.  I won’t bother you about it anymore.”

“I told him to call me,” you say, “When he wants to talk.”

Hideki’s expression is grim, hopeless.  You want to throttle him for giving up on his own teammate. 

“He’ll call,” you promise.

You know Shougo better than anyone, after all.

*

It takes months, but eventually, you do get that call.

It’s late, and you’re just dozing off, a book open on your face as you lay back in bed, and it falls to the floor when you scramble to answer your phone.  “Yeah?” you answer blearily.

There’s a long pause where you don’t hear anything. 

“Hello?” you ask.

“It’s me,” you hear, very quietly.  You don’t need to ask who.

“Hey.”

There’s a long silence again.  “I lost today.”

“ _I_?” you repeat, “Don’t you mean _we_ , as in the team?  I heard our school lost in the quarter-finals.  Still pretty impressive.”

“No.  I mean, yeah, we lost, but….”  He sighs.  “Other shit happened, too.”  You’re trying to decide if you should push about that and try to find out what he means, but before you can, he continues, “I wanna talk to you.  In person.”

“You wanna talk?” you repeat, “That’s all you want to do?”

“Yeah.  Just talk.”  He sounds tired.  You remember feeling the same way after you changed, the rush you had when you realized how much energy you’d wasted on being angry, and then the crash that followed.  “I talked to Ishida, too, a little.”

“You apologize to him for being a dick?”

“Jesus Christ, I thought you were gonna be nice to me.”

“This is nice,” you say.

He’s quiet again.  “I did,” he admits, “And to the rest of the team.”

“You feel better?”

“A little.  But I can’t talk to them that much about this.  They don’t really get it.”

_But you do._

You smile.  “Well,” you say, “You name a time and a place, Haizaki.  I’ll be there.”

“You’d better,” he growls.

You almost snap at him, but think better of it.  It’s not as if his suspicion is unfounded.  “I will.  I promise,” you say, “I owe you, after all.”

“Yeah, you do,” he says, almost softly. 

*

Shougo gives his time, and he gives his place.

And this time, you make sure to show up.


	4. Daiki Aomine: Summer of Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a particular summer that you can't stop thinking about, and it's the same one that Aomine just can't seem to remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somebody mentioned Aomine forever ago and I was like, "oh yeah that'd be cool!" and then I disappeared off the face of the earth. Here is my apology. Hoping to churn out some more of these here soon.

You don’t sit still very well; Daiki learned this pretty early on in the school year.

It’s especially apparent on a serenely quiet Monday morning when he’s leaning over his desk during literature class, zoning out as the teacher drones on about the symbolism of sheep in a Murakami novel he’s supposed to have read but doesn’t even have with him, when the classroom door flies open with a clatter and his head jerks up at the rush of air as you practically leap to your seat and slide into place at the desk right behind his, as though hoping someone will actually believe you’d been there all along.

The teacher calls your name tiredly, asking, “What’s your excuse this time?”

“It was the train,” you say, “The one I caught to get here sped wildly out of control due to an electrical short in the controls, and it was barreling down the tunnel and almost rear-ended the next train until the conductor used the emergency brake.  People were screaming, and bags were flying, and children were crying, and when they let us off, they had to take my statement, so I was late.”

The teacher raises a brow.

You shrug.  “I also tried to skip, but the principal caught me.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Daiki yawns and settles back into his seat, only to startle again when you tap on his shoulder.

“Hey, Aomine,” you say.

He hesitates to answer.  “What?”

“Cover me.”

“Wait, what—?”

The next thing he knows, you’ve yanked the back of his chair until he’s tipping over, and there’s a commotion, a clatter of desks being overturned and chairs being thrown, and everyone in the room is panicking and pointing fingers as the teacher tries to regain control.  You are, predictably, nowhere to be seen, but he notices the window is open.

_“What is your problem?” he asked you once, only because you’d “accidently”—you were pretty adamant it was an accident, anyway—hit him with an eraser and threw him off balance badly enough that he tripped into a cabinet in the science room, spilling everything inside and letting you make an easy get away.  He doesn’t consider it his business, but he’d found you invading his spot on the roof, and that he just could not tolerate.  “Why in the fuck are you always doing shit like this and jumping out of windows?”_

_You’d shrugged and looked away from him, pointedly at the clear sky overhead.  “I want to get out of here,” you told him, and Daiki didn’t ask for clarification because he didn’t really care._

_“You just don’t give a shit, do you?  About what anyone thinks.”_

_You apparently didn’t hear him, because you didn’t answer, and he didn’t feel like repeating himself._

_“Do what you want,” he grumbled, “Just don’t get me involved.”_

But you do.  You keep involving him, every time, and Daiki can’t figure out if you’re just fucking with him or trying to make a point or something, because it keeps happening over and over, flying chairs and falling desks and broken chalk, a cacophony of panicked voices in a place where order is supposed to reign supreme.  If chaos had a human form, he thinks it would be you, falling into your desk from seemingly nowhere long after roll call with a long-winded excuse you know nobody will believe before disappearing in a whirlwind again, leaping from second-story windows and back into the wild from whence you came.

Daiki can’t figure it out, and frankly, he wouldn’t bother, but you won’t leave him alone, and that makes it hard to ignore you.

So when classes are done for the day, he corners you by the shoe lockers, scowling.  “I thought I told you to cut that shit out.”  You keep rummaging through your locker like you didn’t hear him.  “Hey!”

“You know, this morning, I was watching that show, _Konoha the Tanuki_ ,” you tell him.

He stares back, dumbfounded. 

“Have you ever seen it?  I know it’s a kid’s show, but it’s pretty good.”

“Are you listening to me?” he demands.

You shut your locker and turn to look at him.  “Yeah, I’m listening, but you’re not really saying anything worth responding to.”

His eyes narrow.  “Look, I don’t care what you do, but maybe you could try leaving during lunch, or flipping over someone _else’s_ chair.  I told you I don’t want any part of your bullshit.”

You stare at his hair, lips pursed in thought.  “I still can’t get over that being your real hair color.”

“You really aren’t listening, are you?”

“I’m serious, it’s the exact same shade as—!”

Daiki walks away, leaving you there in the shoe lockers.  You frown, shoulders sinking in disappointment.  There is a method to your madness, after all, a reason why it’s him that you single out. 

_But he doesn’t remember._

*

On your first day at Touou, you came into your homeroom with your eyes wide open, searching for someone you thought might be able to relate to you.  They didn’t have to be from somewhere far away; they just had to be able to step back and look at the big picture, and then you were sure you’d get along just fine.  Your search ended almost as soon as it had begun, because you saw Daiki Aomine resting an elbow against his desk looking ready to fall asleep at any minute, and you bounded over in excitement at the familiar face.

“Hey, Aomine,” you said, and took the open seat behind him.  He glanced back at you, confused.

“Huh?”  He yawned and rubbed at his eyes.  “Do I know you?”

You rolled your eyes.  “Come on, don’t joke like that.  I know it’s you.  There’s no way I’d forget your hair color.”

His eyes lit up and you felt your heart beating in excitement—

“Oh, are you a fan from Teiko?”

—that turned instantly into confusion.  “What?”

“You don’t have to be shy,” he said with a smirk, and straddled his chair backwards to talk to you, suddenly willing to give you his attention.  “I had a lot of fans back then.  You’re in luck, I’m gonna play here now, so you should come cheer me on.”

“Wait, I don’t think you understand.”

“Sure I understand.  You should’ve talked to me sooner, I wouldn’t mind dating a cute girl like you.”

You feel heat rising to your face, but you fight your embarrassment, because you’re pretty sure he’s missing the point.  “Aomine, I am not your fan,” you say firmly.

His flirtatious expression drops and his tone becomes bored again.  “Oh,” he says, “So, what, you like Kise or something?”

“What?  I don’t even—?”

The teacher comes in and writes their name on the board, starting to introduce themselves.  Daiki shrugs and turns his back to you.  At first, you’re angry, but then you’re just disappointed.

 _“He doesn’t remember?  Not even a little bit?”_ you think, staring at the back of his head, dark blue hair.  You know you don’t have the wrong person; it has to be him.  Sure, it was a long time ago, but you thought….

Your classmates begin giving self-introductions one at a time, going down the rows, and you stare down at the floor, a feeling of loneliness settling over you. 

_“Maybe it just didn’t mean much to him.”_

*

You happen to pass Daiki at the end of the day, the sky dyed a burnt orange as the sun sinks below the horizon.  “Hey!” you call, waving as you run over, and he glances at you reluctantly.  He’s walking with a girl who glances up at him curiously, but he grimaces to whatever she says to him. 

“What’re you doing here this late?” he asks.

“Detention.”

He rolls his eyes.  “Big surprise.”

“Yeah, well, what about you?”

“Basketball practice.  I don’t know why I need to go, though, all I ever do is watch everyone else suck.”

You raise a brow.  “You go to practice, but you don’t actually practice?”

He gestures to the girl with his thumb.  “I wouldn’t if I weren’t dragged there.”

“I couldn’t drag you if I tried, Daiki, you’re too heavy,” the girl says with a pout.

Your eyes widen.  _She calls him by his first name?_   Suddenly, you feel a little self-conscious about how friendly you’re being with him.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” she says, smiling, “Momoi, Satsuki.  I’m the team manager.”

“And a major pain in the ass.”

She tries to jab Daiki in the side with her elbow, but he sidesteps her.  

“Are you two dating?” you ask bluntly.

Daiki freezes, and Satsuki blinks.  Then she starts to laugh, hard enough that she starts gasping for air and clutching her stomach as she doubles over, and Daiki glowers at her.

“I see what’s going on here,” she says when she calms down, “You’re one of Daiki’s fans, aren’t you?”

“You’ve got it wrong,” Daiki says before you can answer, “She’s not a fan, she’s just an annoying classmate.”

“Daiki, that’s not nice.”

“It doesn’t bother me if he says that,” you shrug, “But you aren’t dating?”

Satsuki smiles knowingly.  “No, we’re not.”

Daiki raises a brow at you.  “Why do you care?”

“Daiki, isn’t it obvious?”

You cut into the conversation before they can get started again, “Aomine, you say you’re on the basketball team, but you hardly go to practice, and when you do, you just watch everyone else play?  What’s the point?”

“I don’t need to practice,” he says with a shrug, “I’m as good as I’m going to get.  I only play because I want to find someone as good as me, and I haven’t yet.”

“That’s stupid,” you say, “You might as well quit if that’s how you feel.”

Satsuki’s eyes widen.  Beside her, Daiki falls silent, his lazy stance changing into something aggravated, and he jams his hands into his pockets as he looms over you, glaring.  “Where do you get off thinking you can tell me I should quit?” he growls, “I’ll play if I want to.  I don’t go to practice because it’s a waste of my time, and I never play at one hundred percent because the game would be over before it started if I did.  It’s not my fault I got as good as I did; it’s everyone else’s fault for not being able to catch up.  I’d give more of a shit if everyone else did.”

He sounds really, genuinely angry.  It’s the most emotion you’ve heard in his voice since meeting him again at Touou, and while you want to be happy about that, you’re mad at him.  He’s not supposed to be like everyone else in Tokyo; he’s supposed to be different, he’s supposed to _get_ you in a way that no one else can. 

Daiki’s face is twisted in rage, and you think for a minute he’s going to go off on you again, but he just turns on his heel and storms off.  Satsuki tries to stop him once but he shakes her hand off and keeps going. 

“He’s really mad,” she says, glancing at you and waiting for an explanation, but you don’t say anything.  “How do you know Daiki again?”

“I don’t,” you mumble, and start walking the other way, “Not anymore.”

*

You hate Tokyo.

You hated it when you moved there for your dad’s job three years ago, and you hate it now.  It’s a huge, nonsensical mess where nobody has any space.  It’s not like Japan is all that big a place anyway, but you really think Tokyo is just the worst.  Everyone’s in this huge hurry nonstop, like something positively _cataclysmic_ will happen if they don’t get what they want as expediently as possible, and it bothers the hell out of you, because _what’s the big deal_?  Life is short, but it’s not so short that you can’t stop a minute get to know people and appreciate every experience you have, but people in Tokyo act like they don’t even know what it means to “stop and smell the roses,” or like they might be offended if you told them about it, might say something like, _“How dare you tell me to slow down and enjoy myself!”_   They just want to get to the top as fast as possible—the top of the class ranking, the top of the social food chain, the top of the company—and forget whoever might get chewed up on the way.

It’s got to be the city’s fault, you think, that the people who live in it are the way they are, because people aren’t like that in your hometown, or really in most of Okinawa.  You grew up being taught that it was okay to take things slow, that it’s okay to not get something the first time.  You spent your evenings outside beneath palm trees, spending festivals watching dragon boats and listening to taiko drummers, out in the free, open air where you actually had room and time to breathe.

“You’re going to be late,” your mother warns.  You’re ready to go—hair brushed, breakfast eaten and school uniform on—but you don’t really want to go, so you’re sitting on the sofa watching _Konoha the Tanuki_ with your school bag resting on the floor beside you.

“I know,” you say quietly, “I’ll go soon.”

You hear her sigh and feel the sofa cushions sink as she sits next to you, and glance at her out of the corner of her eye.  “I hate seeing you like this,” she says, “I know you miss Okinawa, but can’t you try to think of Tokyo has home?”

You don’t answer.  She doesn’t say anything for a while.  On TV, Konoha the tanuki has shapeshifted into a human girl so she can go to human school, but when she gets nervous, her tail comes out, and the whole class makes fun of her. 

“You don’t belong here, you’re a tanuki!” one of the kids says. 

Konoha’s big eyes well up with tears and she runs away.

“I didn’t want to say anything, because I thought it would make for a nice surprise,” your mother says, “But your father is saving up money for us to go back in the summer for a couple weeks.”

You abruptly look over at her, eyes wide.  “Really?”

She smiles.  “Yes, but don’t tell him I said anything.  You have to act surprised when he tells you.”

You nod.  “I can act surprised,” you say eagerly, overwhelmed with happiness for the first time in years.  Even if it’s just a visit, you can’t wait to go back.  You can visit all of your favorite stores from your hometown, and eat sweet sata andagi, and go back to the beach where you stayed out late one summer and—

And….

And you saw a boy with deep blue hair, the same shade as the striped erabu snake’s colored bands, and he was crying.

*

It’s the last day of classes before summer break, and your restlessness gets even worse.  You get about as far as math class before you just need to move.  You start out tapping your foot and then your pencil and pretty soon you’re glancing out the window and then around the room, trying to figure out if you should kick Daiki in the leg or throw his bag across the room, but before you do anything, you realize he’s turned around to look at you.

“Hey,” he says, which is pretty surprising, because you’re always the one to initiate and he always does this awkward “look to the side and pretend I didn’t hear” thing until it’s too awkward to keep up anymore.  “I watched _Konoha the Tanuki_ this morning.”

You stare back.  “Are you…making fun of me?”

He scowls.  “What, so you can say weird shit and it’s fine, but if I try, I’m making fun of you?”

You surprise gives way to happiness.  “No, it’s okay,” you say, “I just thought you might still be mad at me.”

He shrugs.  “I’m not gonna hold a grudge.”  His bored expression morphs into a grin, and there’s a flirtatious edge not unlike the first time you met again on your first day at Touou.  “Besides, you haven’t even seen me play yet.  You can’t talk shit until you come to a game.”

“That’s fair.”

“Anyway, did you watch it this morning?”

“Well, yeah.”  You shake your head.  “Where is this coming from all of the sudden?  Why do you want to talk to me now?”

Daiki’s gaze strays to the window.  “I just do,” he says stubbornly. 

“Come on.”

“Look, I just want to.”  He pauses.  “And, you kind of remind me of—!”

“Aomine,” the teacher calls sternly, “Are you talking about anything relevant to the lesson?”

He rolls his eyes and turns back to face the front of the room and it takes everything you have not to hiss at him to turn back around, because your heart is nearly beating out of your chest in excitement.

 _“Does he remember?”_ you think hopefully, _“Did I say something that made him think about it?”_

At the end of the day, you begin packing your bag, keeping your eyes on the boy in front of you.  Aomine packs his things and stands up but he doesn’t leave right away.  He comes to stand next to your desk, bag slung back over his shoulder.  “I was just gonna say that Konoha reminds me of you,” he says.

You wait for something more than that, but it never comes, and you deflate somewhat.  “Oh,” you say.

“What do you mean, ‘oh’?” Daiki asks, frowning in irritation.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“What?” he demands, slamming one hand on the top of your desk, “I’m trying, okay?  I don’t know what you want, but I’m trying.”

You stare up at him, confused.  “Trying what?”

“Trying to make you feel better.”  He looks away, apparently embarrassed.  “I didn’t have to watch that stupid show to know you’re uncomfortable.  A while ago, you said you wanted to get out of here.  You’re from Okinawa, right?  I’ve been there once as a kid, it’s really different from Tokyo.”

“Yes!”  You jump up and he steps back in surprise.  “Yes, it’s totally different!  You get it, right?  You get why I don’t like it here?”

“Yeah, I think I can see why.”

“Do you remember?” you ask, and you think you sound desperate but you can’t help it, “Anything at all?  The beach?  The rocks?  The snake?” 

 _“Me?”_ you think hopefully.

Daiki doesn’t say anything, and you could cry.  You’ve jumped the gun; he doesn’t remember it at all.

It shouldn’t matter, should it, though?  Daiki understands you now, even if he doesn’t remember that summer.  You shouldn’t be upset.

But you _are._   You want him to remember.  You want him to know why you keep bothering him.  You want him to remember the boy who came to the island and spent the summer with you, who came from Tokyo but acted like an Okinawan. 

You want him to remember where your feelings are coming from.

“Ah, never mind.  Forget I said anything,” you say, and pick up your school bag as you flash him a big smile, “Have a good summer break.”

Daiki looks like he wants to say something, but he just lets you go.

It’s just as well; you start running when you’re in the hall, because you don’t want him to see you cry.

*

Your first step out of Naha Airport and onto Okinawan soil fills you with peace. 

You stay with relatives who live near the coast, not far from where you used to live.  You take a walk through town with your parents, visit a shrine, go shopping, and end the day on the beach, the same one you met first Daiki on.  There are tall rock shelves every few miles, slick with water and crawling with wildlife that swarm in during high tide.  You watch the sun dive below the water, the colors of sunset leaking into the ocean like liquid wildfire. 

“I missed it, too, you know,” you hear your mother say from where she’s standing a few feet behind you. 

You nod.  “I’m sorry.  For being a handful, I mean.  I’ve just been homesick.”

“It’s alright,” she tells you, “I think we’ve all been needing this.” 

You listen to the waves lap against the shore and watch the tide come in.  “Hey, mom,” you call, “Do you remember that boy I played with a long time ago?  The one who came from Tokyo with his family?”

“Oh, yes,” she says, and you hear the smile in her voice, “That was an eventful summer, wasn’t it?  He was a nice boy.  I wonder what he’s up to now.”

You laugh.  “Basketball, actually.”

Your mother pauses.  “You met him again?”

“We’re at the same school.”

“Is that right?  Why don’t you invite him over sometime?”

You stare out at the ocean, imagining the phantoms of your younger selves, running to meet the waves, laughing and splashing each other.  “He doesn’t actually remember that we met.”

“Ah.  I suppose it was a long time ago.”

 _“But I remember him,”_ you think, but you smile and say, “You’re right, it was a while ago.”

“Don’t stay out too late,” your mother says, and you hear her footfalls sinking in the sand as she leaves.

“I know,” you call back.  You just want to stay where you are a little longer, just so you can imagine that day again.  Maybe she’s right; maybe it was so long ago that it doesn’t matter anymore.  Maybe you need to just let it go and start over.  Maybe that’s the right thing to do.

Daiki calls your name, standing in front of you with his deep blue hair in a black t-shirt and swim trunks, and you smile up at him. 

Except. 

Wait.

He wasn’t that tall when you were kids.

You aren’t imagining things now.

“Aomine?!” you shriek, scrambling to your feet. 

He looks equally surprised.  “What are you doing here?”

“What are _you_ doing here?”

“My team’s here for training,” he explains, “Are you here visiting family?”

“Ah.  Yeah.”

It gets quiet after that.  You hear the water rushing up to the beach and then retreating back out into the ocean, seabirds circling overhead. 

“Well,” he says awkwardly, “I should probably get going.”

You nod.  “Right.  Yeah.”

But he doesn’t leave, and you’re both still standing there, not looking at each other. 

“It’s nice out,” he says.

“Yeah, it is.”

He digs his feet into the sand and stares at his toes.  “You know, I came here with my family a while ago,” he says, “We stayed not too far from this beach.  I bet I played out here.”

You smile tightly at the ground.  “That seems likely.”

“Alright, so,” and he takes an unsteady step, looking torn, “Maybe I’ll see you around?” and takes off jogging without waiting for an answer. 

You’re so wrapped up in your own embarrassment and bewilderment of being caught so thoroughly off guard when it suddenly occurs to you that he’s running towards the nearest rock shelf.

“Wait!” you call, and take off after him, even though he’s awfully small in the distance, “Aomine, wait!!”  You hear him give a startled yell and then he’s falling over into the sand, and you break into a sprint.  “Aomine!” you shout, and for a second, you’re reliving your childhood.

_It was on this very beach, late at night.  You remember coming outside because you were feeling restless, and you like to feel the sand squish between your toes and watch crabs scurry away from you.  But that night, for the first time, you weren’t alone out there._

_There was a boy, a boy with blue hair, and he was crying._

“Holy shit,” he breathes, and he’s hyperventilating, starting to panic, “It—it just—fucking snakes—!”

_“Mommy!” he cried, “Mommy, help!”_

_You knew all the kids you lived by, and you didn’t recognize him, but he sounded scared, so you ran over to see what was wrong.  He rolled onto his back, and you saw bloody bite marks in his leg._

_“It hurts,” he sobs, “I-I can’t get up!”_

“Give me your shirt,” you tell him.

Daiki looks up at you in confusion.

“Your shirt!  Hurry up!  You said it was a snake, right?”

“Yeah, but—!”

“With black and blue bands, right?”

“Yeah, I—!”

“They’re poisonous.  They nest in the rocks to mate, and they’ll bite if you get too close.” 

_The little boy just cried louder.  “I don’t wanna die!” he wailed._

_“You won’t die,” you told him, “I’m going to help you.”_

Daiki’s eyes widen and he scrambles back towards the water.  “Poisonous?” he repeats, voice pitched with fear, “Wh-what the fuck do I do?”

“Give me your shirt,” you say patiently.

_His hands were shaking too much for him to get it himself, so you told him to stick his hands straight up and pulled his shirt off.  You tied it tightly around his leg, pressing the fabric against the wound._

_“I live really close,” you told him, and offered a hand, “My mom can take you to the hospital.”_

_He sniffled, hesitantly taking your hand and leaning against you as you limped up the beach and down the road.  “I-I’m scared.”_

_“It’s okay,” you said, “I’ll go, too.  I’ll hold your hand if you want.”_

_“I don’t need you to hold my hand!”  He was still crying and his face was covered in snot, but he wasn’t going to put up with you insulting his bravery, apparently.  “I’m really tough!”_

_“Well, I’m still going to go,” you insisted, “Just in case you change your mind.  Because you might.”_

_“I will not.  You’ll see.  I’m the toughest kid in my whole neighborhood.  I’m not even scared of mean dogs.”_

_“I guess you must be brave, since you were over by the rocks.  That’s where the snakes are at night, you know.  You’re not supposed to be close to them.”_

_“…I didn’t know.”_

_“That’s where they have babies.  I bet they thought you were a bad snake trying to hurt their babies, because your hair is the same color as their stripes.”_

_The boy pouted.  “I’m not a snake!  Snakes are dumb and mean!”_

_“But your hair is blue, just like them.  They’re called erabu.”_

_“Well, I’m not erabu.  I’m Daiki.  Aomine, Daiki.  See, it’s easy to remember, because of my hair, so you can’t forget.”_

_“Oh, that is easy to remember!”_

_“See?  What’s your name?”_

_You smiled and you told him, and he promised he’d remember it._

*

You remember that he got in trouble when his parents found out he snuck out of the hotel at night all by himself, but they were so relieved that he’d survived that they didn’t stay mad for long.  They met your parents, and the two of you got to play every day until summer vacation ended and he had to go back to Tokyo.  You didn’t go near the rocks again, as Daiki had developed a fear of snakes, but you’d meet on the beach early in the morning to watch the crabs, and Daiki would try to catch one and then chase you around with it.

You remember thinking it was odd that he was so much like you.  You both liked to run and climb and play hide and seek.  You’d met other kids from Tokyo before, and their parents never wanted them to get dirty.  They saw some of the beach, but they didn’t ever go off the beaten path like Daiki did, fearlessly.

You remember thinking you would miss him when he left.

You remember thinking, when you left, that you’d love to see him again.

You remember thinking he’d be the only one in all of Tokyo who would understand how you felt, what you were leaving behind and how badly you wanted it back.

*

“Daiki!” Satsuki cries, a group of boys who you can only assume are the basketball team assembled behind her outside of the hospital, “What in the world happened to you?  First you didn’t come back to the inn last night, and then you call us in the morning from the hospital?!”

“I’m fine,” he drawls, rolling his eyes and feigning disinterest.  You catch his wince when he puts too much weight on the leg with the bite, now wrapped tightly in bandages with a splint.  “I just did something dumb.”

“Looks _really_ dumb,” one of the boys, slightly shorter with rectangular glasses, sighs.  “You’re not going to be able to practice like that.”

“Like I _need_ fucking practice.”

“He’ll probably be good to go in a few days,” you say, “It’s not broken, it was just a snake bite.”

All eyes turn to you, looking mostly surprised but somewhat pitying.  “I didn’t realize you were here, too,” Satsuki says, glancing cautiously at Daiki and searching for some reaction.

“I grew up in Okinawa, actually.  I’m visiting my hometown.  This is a happy coincidence, though.”

“I suppose we have you to thank for looking after him?”

“I just took him to the hospital.”

“Still, he’s kind of a pain to deal with, isn’t he?”

“I’m just right here,” Daiki grumbles.

“Oh, it’s alright,” you say, smiling, “I’ve dealt with him before.”

Daiki shoos his friends and teammates away, promising he’ll wander back eventually, and lingers in front of the hospital with you for a moment.  “Sorry,” he says.

You shrug.  “It’s okay.  If you didn’t know, you didn’t know.  In the future, you won’t go near the rocks.”

“No, not—well, yeah, sorry about that, too.  But I meant, sorry for not listening to you sooner.”  He rubs the back of his head.  “I told myself I didn’t care what your problem was, but every time I saw you, you reminded me of this girl I met when I came here a while back.  I wanted to help, if I could.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  I don’t remember it too well, but I know I got bitten by a snake back then, too.  I was always sneaking off and doing dumb shit as a kid.”  He shrugs.  “Guess I still do dumb shit now.”

You smile.  “So do I.”

“Yeah, well, stop doing it.  I hear what you’re saying, alright?  You don’t like it in Tokyo, and after coming here, I get why.  I’d hate to leave this behind, too.”  He pauses.  “And I’m sorry for forgetting.”

You hold your breath.  “What?”

“You remembered me after all this time.”  He chuckles.  “The hair, like you said.  Easy to remember that way.”

There are a million words that want to pour out all at once, and you choke on them. 

Daiki tenses when he sees the first tears run down your cheeks and grimaces.  “Aw, shit, I didn’t mean—uh, look, I—!”

“When did you remember?” you manage to ask.

“Last night,” he says quietly, “When you ran up to help me.  It was exactly the same back then, wasn’t it?”

You nod.  Daiki wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, and you hold onto him tightly, afraid he’ll disappear if you let go. 

“Sorry,” he says, “I won’t forget again.”

You tell him, between sniffling and sobbing tears of joy, that you’ll hold him to it.

*

Summer vacation ends, and you watch Okinawa vanish over the horizon as your plane flies back to Tokyo.  You don’t feel the crushing loneliness you felt the first time you made this trip, though; you feel alright this time. 

On the first day of the new term, Daiki takes his seat in front of you, the deep sea blue color reminding you of erabu snakes and the ocean at night.  “Hey,” he says, turning in his chair to look at you, “You’re gonna come to one of my games, right?”

“Why, are there snakes in Tokyo?” you ask, “Do I need to bring bandages with me, just to be ready?”

“Very funny.”

You laugh.  “I don’t know, going seems like a waste of time if I can’t even see you give it your all.”

“Nah, I’ll give it my all,” he says with a smirk, “Just for you.”

“You shouldn’t try to be all smooth with me, Aomine, I’ve seen you cry for your mom.”

“I’m not a kid anymore.”

“You act like it sometimes.”

Then he surprises you; Daiki suddenly leans in, putting his hand beneath your chin to tilt your head up, and crushes your lips in a bruising, clumsy and passionate kiss.  He pulls away just as the teacher comes in, leaving you red-faced and breathless, and licks his lips.  “How about now?” he asks, and you’re so stunned you actually let him have the last word.

That summer of blue may be long gone, but you have a little piece of it right here, a constant reminder that you are not alone.  Somehow, you and the boy from the beach found each other again in the city, and you don’t feel like you need to escape.

Okinawa is still in your heart and your memories, and right here beside you, so there’s no need to run away anymore.


End file.
